I love the French Revolution, I love France and I love experimenting with writing. This was a very fun story to write!
Warning! In case you didn't see before, this gets kind of graphic. There is a talking severed head. I'm not responsible for the nightmares that may occur.
Please read and review! I'd really like to hear your thoughts on this one!
French Revolution, 1793
No matter how France adjusted what he was wearing, the horrid stains were still visible. Every single frock he owned was now speckled with the same dark red stains. He pulled and fiddled at the purple and white one he had chosen for today, it was his cleanest. He wished he had the money to purchase some new ones but even if he did, during this time of revolution that would have been dangerous. The poor were revolting against the rich nobility and his citizens were in turmoil. The uppercrust he found himself being shoved with were being particularly scrutinized by the citizens. Honestly, he identified more with the "bourgeoisie" then he did the nobility but apparently, that was not for the nation to decide himself. He sighed, perhaps his clothes would not be too embarrassing. After all, each of them would be covered in blood from the guillotine at the end of this long day.
Giving up on his clothes, France quickly pulled his long blond hair back with a bow, leaving his bangs to frame his face. Standing back to look at himself in the mirror, he nodded solemnly. Despite the obvious stains, he still looked presentable at least he could manage that decently enough. Everything was chaos on the inside, pushed near the breaking point but the outside was calm. France, he thought almost proudly, would always have his vanity. No war would take that away from him. He placed his hands on his hips and started to laugh heartily, while staring at the mirror. He found the image of a smiling man with terror in his eyes gazing back at him.
A swift knock on the door interrupted his laughter, slamming him abruptly back into reality. Letting the laughter die, he cleared his throat and walked as calmly as he could over to the door. He wrapped his hand around the knob, noting the cold metal against his skin and swung it open. On the other side stood his assistant, one of the few luxuries he had left, telling him his carriage awaited outside. The young boy had concern on his face, he had heard him laughing, France thought. France simply gave the boy a reassuring smile and motioned for him to lead the way to the front gate. The smile faded quickly when the boy turned to do so.
Once down, out of the mansion and climbing unassisted into the carriage, France settled himself in the plush exterior. Yet another luxury he was allowed to keep. The carriage lurched forward and so did his mind, it began racing with worry. Sitting there with one leg crossed over the other, arms folded in front of him he seemed normal. However, he was beginning to think he was anything but. What had that laughter been about? Why had he just begun laughing like that? Right now in this moment he felt fine, normal but what if the laughter returned? Unwanted and worrisome. What if it happened at the wrong moment? France shook his head roughly, of course not, he was fine he would be able to control the next outburst. No, there would not be a next time, he nodded. He was fine, nothing to fret over. France closed his eyes sighing, hoping to get some sleep on this journey.
In what seemed like just enough time to start to drift off, the carriage jerked to a halt. France was nearly thrown to the ground in surprise but managed to brace himself. He swallowed hard, that must mean they had arrived at the courthouse. It was time to partake in the "ceremony". France shuddered as he got out, such a gruesome term for what was happening. Yet, his citizens insisted on calling it that. Silently, he said a prayer that history would call it something different, something that eluded to the terror he felt reigning over him.
Quickly as he could, he made his way down to the front row, where his "assigned seat" was. People stopped him to give a greeting all along the way; cheerful faces lined the aisles among the chairs. Like they were at a party, a social gathering France thought disgusted, not the mass execution of 50 or more people. Of course, he greeted them as well using his charming smile to make it seem all was well. This was a dangerous game France found himself in, one that had to be played just right. In the event of a loss, the loser faced death.
Finally he made it to his seat and then proceeded to stare at the stage they had put up for today. A festive one draped in white with the blue, white and red flag bunting going around its edge. The center piece loomed high over their heads, a guillotine, its blade already brought to the top. France stared at it as the morning sun glinted off the sharp steel, it looked rusted. He knew this was not the case, he knew it was the dried blood of previous victims but he tried desperately to convince himself it was rust. He dropped his eyes quickly when he noticed the executioner walk up the back stairs, the first victim in tow.
Those who had not found their seat rushed into place, the feeling in the air was an eager one. For some of them it was their time at a guillotine murdering session and France could see that those people were excited. It was disgusting, but he watched nonetheless as the victim was placed in the stock, latched and then quickly dispatched with the high speed blade. The head falling neatly into the basket so cleverly placed underneath. The crowd didn't cheer, but France read the atmospheric change, they were highly pleased. Then came another victim, and yet another, France watched them all hardly blinking.
After so many times seeing this, he almost felt like he was being desensitized to the horror. At first he had been terrified of course, seeing the blood gushing from the neck and watching some of the bodies writhe a tiny bit after the head had been severed was traumatizing. However, this had been going on for a year now he had seen it so many times. He hated it yes, and he wanted it to stop but he was too afraid to say anything. He was afraid he would meet the end of the blade, if they could kill his boss the King, then he assumed they would have no trouble killing the representative of their own country. That was why he kept attending these gatherings, out of fear. Fear of the hatred and malice that gripped his citizen's hearts.
Finally the time had come for the last victim of the day. France was relieved, he could go home and try to relax. It seemed like the laughing fit he had had was just a onetime thing, like he had assumed in the carriage. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and smiled faintly, he was ok. Slowly he turned his eyes back to the stage and what he saw took the relieved breath right from him. No it couldn't be, they wouldn't be that stupid as to go after another nation would they? France stared hard, no the man couldn't possibly be him but he bore a remarkable resemblance to England. So much so that France felt fear well up into his heart.
The man was on the short side but incredibly thin. The way his blond hair was cut so short and unkempt looked almost exactly like England's, the green eyes that darted from face to face in the crowd shared his beauty. France noticed that the man had thick eyebrows as well. This was too much, it was England it had to be! He started shaking, this was wrong why was no one stopping this. He watched as they latched the man into the stock, the locking sound echoing across the grounds. Why was no one intervening? They all knew what the other representatives looked like, the crowd had to know it was England. France tore his eyes away long enough to glance around. Nothing, no recognition of what was happening at all! This can't be happening! The sound the blade being pulled up to its peak made him snap his head back to the scene.
He couldn't allow this to happen, he had to stop it. England was in grave danger, why was he the only one able to see this. He opened his mouth to shout but nothing came out, he couldn't form the words to stop it. Was he too scared? Too sacred to save the person he cared most about? No, he tried again but still nothing. The blade rose higher and higher, he would have to try harder. He jumped up out of his seat and waved his arms around frantically still trying to scream. Why couldn't he make a sound? He was panicking, now hopping up and down, but no one seemed to notice. Then in a flash he saw it, the executioner let go of the rope and the blade plunged straight down cleanly separating England's head from his body. France froze, the sound of the head falling into the basket cut through his own head.
This time the crowd erupted into applause, it echoed off the buildings and all around, like they were cheering for the final act of a macabre play. France tuned them out, everything seemed to go in slow motion now. Without thinking, he found himself walking up the steps of the stage, up to the basket to peer inside. There was England's head, lying on top of the others his cheeks still fairly rosey. France let the tears start rolling down his face.
"Angleterre, mon amour I am so sorry. Why did zhis 'appen to you! I tried to stop it!" He cried out kneeling down beside the basket. He reached his hand in to stroke the side of England's face. However, he was forced to jerk his hand back at what proceeded.
"Oi, Frog you didn't try hard enough." England's severed head growled angrily. France blinked a few times, what was this? He had seen the heads grimace slightly after being chopped but never speak. He found it odd but answered anyway.
"I did, no one noticed my efforts!" He replied. England scoffed.
"Screaming and waving your arms about like a loon won't do anything. You need to take action, get control of your citizens git" He said. France stared down, confused.
"'ow am I supposed to do zhat, zhey won't listen. Too busy with 'atred and zhis Revolution." France said becoming irritated with enigmatic head he found himself in conversation with. England rolled his eyes.
"Are you or are you not a nation? Pull yourself together and start acting like it." He said but then soften his gaze. "I believe you can do this, your citizens need someone who cares. Someone who will stand up for them, someone to love them." He said. France looked down at him more confused than ever. Despite himself, he smiled.
"Love? To rid my citizens of revolution you want me to love zhem? What a ridiculous notion!" He said. He began to laugh, the same laugh he had done in front of the mirror. An insane, maniacal laugh. England closed his eyes.
"Yes, you bearded bastard. Love…" he whispered unheard over the laughter.
France continued to laugh until he felt a tap on his shoulder, his assistant had come up on stage and was staring at his with a greater concern then previously. France blinked and glance down to the basket, England's head had been replaced by another's. France looked around, everyone was staring at him hard, some whispering to each other, others merely pointing. He realized what must have happened and was slightly ashamed as he made his way down the platform toward his carriage. There was no hiding it now, France had clearly gone insane.
Once again he climbed into the carriage, on his way back to his mansion. He head reeled with what "England" had said. Love, what made him think love could get him out of this mess? True he disliked the hatred but love was such a simple answer to a complicated issue.
"Love…" He mocked. How would love ever change anything?